


Exquisite Senses

by DSEG



Series: Tokens 'verse [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, Clothed Sex, Fluff, Frottage, Kissing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-02
Updated: 2015-02-02
Packaged: 2018-03-10 02:52:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3274019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DSEG/pseuds/DSEG
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For three days Sherlock and John work on perfecting their kissing technique.  Sherlock learns many important things in this time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Exquisite Senses

For three days Sherlock and John work on perfecting their kissing technique.  Sherlock learns many important things in this time.  First, he is allowed to kiss John whenever he likes.

Approximately 36 minutes of kissing on the couch follows their first kiss.  John finally calls a halt and announces that he is hungry.  This seems like a poor reason to stop kissing, but Sherlock lets John up.  Making John mad won’t result in more kisses, after all.  Sherlock understands cost benefit analysis.  A call is placed to Tamarind for green curry and tom kha soup.  Tom kha is Sherlock’s favorite, which John knows.  87% of the time he can be persuaded to eat it if ordered.

John goes to the kitchen to put the kettle on.  Sherlock follows.  The way John’s body moves is captivating.   _‘I sing the body electric.’_  One of Victor’s favorites.  Sherlock thought he had deleted it. _‘It is in his walk, the carriage of his neck, the flex of his waist and knees, dress does not hide him… This man of wonderful vigor, calmness, beauty of person.’_  It fits John so perfectly.  He’s glad now that the poem didn’t get deleted.  If only he could watch John walk naked!  It would be lovely to watch the flex of his muscles and tendons, to observe the fit of his skin and the shifting of his bones under it all.  For a moment, Sherlock is lost in the fantasy.  The taste of John lingers on his tongue.

John washes out two mugs _don’t tell him about the larvae_ and sets them on the counter.  He turns and regards Sherlock.  “Alright?”

Sherlock nods.  His blood is champagne.  He is very alright.  Kissing would be better, though.  

It’s worth a try.  “Can I kiss you?”

John wastes no time, an admirable trait of his.  Suddenly he is in Sherlock’s space and his slick tongue is exploring the right corner of Sherlock’s mouth.  Sherlock is captivated all over agian.  There is so much to know about John’s mouth and John’s kisses.   _Uneven lower bicuspids.  Upper canines longish and very pointed.  A taste of saliva and tea.  I wonder if John always tastes of tea?_ Sherlock smiles into the kiss.

John bites his lower lip very lightly, like a ferret playing with fingers.  It makes Sherlock’s heart race.

The kettle whistles and John pulls back.  His lips are the color of fresh pink lung tissue.  They are wet and shining and Sherlock wants them back.  John has focussed on the tea, however.  Hot water pours over Assam leaves and the astringent smell of black tea rises between them.  It blends perfectly with the John-taste in Sherlock’s mouth.  John is talking.

“You can always kiss me, Sherlock.  Well,” he pauses and glances over his shoulder, “almost always.  Not during shooting.  Or medical emergencies.  Or horrifying experiments.”  He eyes Sherlock mistrustfully for a moment.  Sherlock can feel his own wide grin.  He knows that it’s not at all reassuring.  “Most of the time, anyway.  You don’t have to ask.”

This is very good news.  In the combined interest of a Happy John and experimentation, Sherlock waits until John has sipped his tea and kisses him again. _Marvelous!  Assam tastes better in John’s mouth!_  They kiss until the tea cools.

As an addendum, Sherlock also learns that kissing in public is acceptable as long as no tongue is involved or, alternately, no one can see them.   _No tongues may be witnessed._

This discovery is made when Sherlock follows John to Tesco.  Sherlock went to a Tesco once in 2007 to buy a box of resealable bags.  There was an incident with a beta woman, her poodle and a cucumber.  He has not been back since.  Clearly he hasn’t been missing much.  Tesco is horrifyingly dull until Sherlock hits on the idea of testing the things-taste-better-in-John’s-mouth hypothesis. _Does it apply to everything?  Nutella?  Jam?  Caviar?  Marmite?_  Marmite, Sherlock believes, is the ultimate test.  Anything that can make Marmite palatable is an honest miracle.  John knows perfectly well that he can’t stand the stuff, so he looks askance at the squat jar and asks what it’s for.  Sherlock explains.  John stares at him for a long moment.   _Not Good?_  There is an intense urge to fidget or possibly just bolt out of the store.  Horrifying.  Sentiment is very unpleasant.  Before he can decide what to do John surges forward and kisses Sherlock in front of two old women and a teen popping gum.   _Very good!_  Then he makes Sherlock put the Marmite back.  

The next new data come that afternoon.  Sherlock learns the term ‘afternoon delight’, which, if not strictly correct for their activities, is still very appropriate.  He also learns that this kissing business is not going to be limited to mouths.

They are on the couch again.  Sherlock may develop a pavlovian response to it at this rate.  He’s certainly developing one to John.  They are slumped together in the middle of the sofa with John more or less on top.  Lazy kisses are being traded back and forth .  Sherlock had convinced John to kick off the things-taste-better-in-John’s-mouth experiment with a teaspoon of honey when they got back from the store.  It was wildly successful.  The last flavor molecules of honey are now being assiduously tracked down.  They taste like sunbeams in John’s wonderful mouth.

Without warning, John changes the game.  He shifts over and places a kiss on the hinge of Sherlock’s jaw.  Sherlock’s stomach swoops like birds in the evening.  John’s lips are damp and tender.  The skin of his throat is rice paper thin.  It feels exquisite.  Sherlock gasps.

John props himself up on an elbow.  “Is that ok?”

Very stupid question.  Sherlock glares disdainfully and presents the side of his neck.  

Laughter, then delicate kisses along the curve of jaw and neck.  Sherlock loses track of his brain.  He clutches John tightly by the biceps and moans.  For the first time since adolescence he is getting hard outside of a heat.   _Strange._  The urgency is nowhere near as strong, but it is still delicious and enervating.  

It occurs to Sherlock, as abruptly as lightning, that he can also do this to John.  He hauls John back.

“What?”  John’s eyes are wide and glazed.  The blue is adorably befuddled.  Sherlock frames his head with both hands, marveling that such a small thing can contain an entire universe.   _‘In this head the all-baffling brain.’_  More practically, where to kiss first?  Nothing presents itself, so Sherlock settles on a grid pattern starting with John’s hairline on the right.

John giggles when his eyebrows are kissed.  When his nose is kissed he scrunches it.  Cheek kisses get no reaction and chin kisses cause him to pull back slightly.  When Sherlock kisses him on his closed eyelids John trembles and sighs.

Together, they map faces and necks and ears.  It takes hours.  Sherlock has lost track of how many.  It doesn’t matter.  The new wing of his mind palace dedicated to John’s body is so much more important.  There is a sunlit gallery dedicated to his mouth, and another for kissing his body.  It is only partially filled, a thought that fills Sherlock with nervous excitement.  For now facts are contained in a huge glass cabinet like pinned butterflies.  Kissing John’s eyes and lips gets the most emotional response.  His pierced ear, suprasternal notch and the hairline at the back of his neck provide the most erotic response.

Personally, Sherlock discovers that he loves John kisses at the edge of his obits.  They make his skin tingle and his brain feel like warm treacle.  John seems as pleased as he is with this information.  Six kisses land there over the space of the following day.

They laze and discover.  John bullies him into eating soft boiled eggs and chicken korma by letting Sherlock taste them in his mouth first.  Sherlock plays for John in the slanting afternoon sun, an on-the-spot composition that sounds like a flamenco married to an eerie gypsy melody.  John watches him play with wrapt eyes.    

Altogether, the three days following John’s token are marvelous.  At 4:27 pm on the third day Lestrade arrives with a case.

John is sitting on the arm of the couch.  He had been looking for QI until Sherlock distracted him.  They have been kissing for 13 minutes.  Sherlock’s back hurts from the awkward angle.   _Worth it._

“Sherlock!  You there?  You haven’t answered your texts.”

Startled, John falls over onto the couch seat.  He looks like a disgruntled hedgehog.  Lestrade bounds in and Sherlock’s mind goes into motion. _No breakfast.  Lunch was a bag of Doritos.  3, no 4 cups of coffee.  Anderson is ill, temp is filling in.  Incompetent.  Murder, very bloody. Too bloody? Mangled Alpha._

“Busy,” Sherlock says.  “Can’t you deduce a staged murder on your own?”

A blink and pause from Lestrade.  “Staged?  Really?  So you saw it on the news?”

“No.”

“Right,” Lestrade says.  He is slumped and his voice is low.  An all-nighter.  Moreover, his bonded is causing trouble with alimony again.  Sherlock feels a twinge of something that might be sympathy.  He hopes it’s not.  Bad enough to have all of these messy feelings for John!

“Very well,” Sherlock says.  “John?”  
John is sitting casually on the couch, one leg crossed to cover the evidence of arousal.  A small, sure smile is directed at them.  “Get dressed, Sherlock.  Then we’ll go.”

He glances down.   _Dressing gown, striped grey pyjama pants, one of John’s old U2 tees that I stole months ago.  Right.  Dressing was dull this morning._  He huffs and strides from the room.

Properly outfitted, they ride with Lestrade to Southwark.  The scene is in an 11th floor flat.  The whole place is done in cream and ecru with minimalist lines, clearly done by a designer who found the client dull.  The bedroom proves much more interesting.  Blood is sprayed all over the walls and floor and the bed is drenched.  He goes out to the kitchen.  There is a lock on the freezer.  Back to the bedroom.  Dull, a 2 at best.  Lestrade should have seen this on his own.  Bond difficulties are slowing his mind.

_Too much blood.  Patterns on the walls consistent with an adult standing and splashing liquid.  Lock on the freezer.  They collected the blood over time.  Overturned furniture is not actually damaged.  Ashtray shattered, while thousand pound celadon vase is unharmed on its side.  Clothes in the closet are of the best quality but two years out of fashion.  Shoes have been re-soled.  A rabbit’s foot on the keychain by the door.  Saint Cajetan medal in the nightstand._

“Your alpha isn’t dead.  He and his beta lover set up the scene and fled last night.  You might catch them in the Channel, but it’s unlikely.  They’ll have flown out of Calais by now to a country without extradition.  Alpha was a gambler, deeply in debt.  The beta will regret following him.  He’s an addict; they’ll be in the same situation again within half a year.”

Lestrade scrubs a hand over his face.  “Shit.  The papers will have a field day.”

“Patently not my problem.”  He’s ready to go home.

John falls into step with him.  “That was incredible.”

Sherlock scoffs.  “Hardly.  Lestrade’s lack of observation is more of a crime than the pseudocide.”

John doesn’t get time to reply.

Sally Donovan has become even less fond of Sherlock after his resurrection.   _Guilt, mostly.  She felt bad when I died and John was grieving.  Believed she helped ‘drive me to the edge’.  Now she blames me for her guilt.  People are imbeciles._  She plants herself in front of the door and smiles like a crocodile.

“What’s that?”  Donovan points at Sherlock’s left hand.

“I should think it obvious even to someone of your limited intellect.”  Sherlock can feel John bristling behind him.  It’s like a drop in barometric pressure that makes the hairs on his spine rise.   _Delicious._  

“A token.  The freak is wearing someone’s shoddy little token.”

“Bad form, Sally.”  She hates it when he calls her by her first name.  Her eyes pinch tighter at the corners.  “It’s rude to insult a token.”  This is true.  Tokens are the next thing to sacred, not that it would stop Sherlock either.

She laughs.  “You lecturing on manners!  It’s the apocalypse.”  Her eyes gleam like a weasel’s.  “Who would give a token to a freak like you?  It it fake?  No,” she pauses, stretches the word out.  All eyes are on them now.  Lestrade is busy on the phone.  She has free reign.  “I know.  It’s a present from your old admirer.  Wearing Jim’s token, Sherlock?”

John was mad.  Now he is livid.  He shoves in front of Sherlock and stands like a bulldog at bay.

“You utter cow.”  His voice is low and thunder-rumbly.  “Sherlock risked his life to take that bastard down so that ungrateful tossers like you can live in peace.”  He advances a step and Donovan retreats.   _Phenomenal._  “The token is mine.  I’ll thank you to keep your comments to yourself.”  There is utter silence in the room.  John reaches back and seizes Sherlock’s hand.  With a final glare, he sails out of the apartment, Sherlock in tow.  

Sherlock’s angry little clipper ship makes it all the way out to the street before he stops.  Firm hands pull him close and a kiss is planted on his mouth.

“You’re mine, Sherlock.  You’re mine and you’re amazing.”

Sherlock is too busy basking to respond.   _The look on her face!_  He gives it a special little frame in his mind palace.  John is make of spiky miracles and they’re all for Sherlock.

At home, John herds Sherlock to the couch.  He doesn’t seem to realize that Sherlock is even more desperate to get there than he is.  Once Sherlock has been suitably placed, John pins him back against the couch and begins an activity that might fall under the heading of ‘ravishment’.  It is very, very good.  John’s mouth and hands and solid little body are electric.  Sherlock feels as if thousands of volts are arcing through him.  He makes an undignified noise and presses up into the assault.  Gentle kisses and exploratory kisses have been brilliant.  Rough, possessive kisses are like a superstorm.

John’s hips thrust down.  Hardness bumps hardness.  Sherlock whines.  He is both very hard and very wet.  Something is going to be done about it this time.  His hips are moving of their own volition.  John groans into his mouth.  Frantic kisses rain over his face.  Suddenly there’s a flashbomb of pain.  John has bitten him right beneath his ear.   _Oh God, yes!_

“Yes!  Again!”

John bites and frots, swiveling his hips to get the most contact between them.  Sherlock clutches at his buttocks encouragingly.  Breath streams damp over his ultra sensitive throat.  Faster!  They are racing toward something together.  Sherlock hits a wall of pleasure and wails incoherently.  Warmth floods his pants and light floods his eyes.  

John thrusts twice more then goes rigid and totally silent.  After a few seconds he collapses onto Sherlock.

“Ugh.”  He presses his sweaty face into sherlock’s shoulder.  There is a smell of thick, rich orgasm wrapped around his normal scent.  Sherlock breathes deep lungfuls.

“Ugh.  Sherlock.  Ok?”  Clearly John isn’t verbose after sex.  Unsurprising.  He isn’t eloquent at the best of times.

“Yes.  Good.” _Hmm.  Try again._ “Very good.”   _Oh well.  At least John isn’t likely to complain._

After a long while, John coughs and leverages himself up.  “Well, Sherlock, I don’t think you need to worry about sex.”

Something grey descends over the world like a shroud.  Sherlock stiffens.  All of the endorphins and oxytocin flush out of his bloodstream.   _Not Good?  Why?  What went wrong?_

“No!  No, Sherlock, relax.  Breathe.”  Sherlock obediently takes a breath.  It tastes like John.  “In a good way, idiot.  That was amazing!  If fully-clothed frotting is that good... well.  As I said, nothing to worry about.”

 _Oh._  “Oh.”   _Good._  The grey film dissolves.  The room is bright and shining.  Late sunlight sparks in John’s hair.  Sherlock breathes again and again.

“Idiot,”  John says fondly and kisses him.

Third lesson: post coital kisses are good too.

 

 

 

 

 

  


**Author's Note:**

> Title and Sherlock’s quotes are from ‘I Sing the Body Electric’ by Walt Whitman. The faked murder is more or less lifted from the first ‘Fables’ graphic novel.


End file.
